


the future in the instant

by skatingsplits



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Compliant Misogyny, F/M, Rough Sex, this is not the way to conduct a healthy relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-09-01 13:09:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16765774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skatingsplits/pseuds/skatingsplits
Summary: Marriage might not curb his baser instincts but it will undoubtedly cover them with a veneer of respectability. Foolish, perhaps, but it hadn’t even occurred to him that she might say no.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. This is all purely self-indulgent ridiculousness, nothing more and as a consequence, more shippy than I tend to get with this decidedly unromantic pairing.  
> 2\. Title from Macbeth because, duh, I'm obsessed with these idea of these two absolute messes as a scheming power couple.

He’s deliberated over it ceaselessly. Faustus often allows himself to be controlled by impulse but this is one situation where only careful, considered thought is required. Every angle and possibility has been meticulously examined and he’s come to the conclusion that the benefits must vastly outweigh the costs. Of course, the proper time to do this might have been half a century ago, at the same time as the majority of his peers, but Faustus has never been particularly interested in the proper way of doing things. That’s one of the reasons that it seems like such a good idea now; there’s nothing wrong with a man sowing his wild oats but he has to admit that he’s perhaps taken it to an extreme. Marriage might not curb his baser instincts but it will undoubtedly cover them with a veneer of respectability and at present, that sounds ideal. Not that it’s the only reason. Despite himself, he’s drawn to the idea of a partnership. Putting all his eggs in one basket has never been his strong suit but surely it can’t hurt when the basket is so solid and serviceable. And so pleasing to the eye. 

Foolish, perhaps, but it hadn’t even occurred to him that she might say no. He'd certainly expected her to look a little more pleased. Instead, he only sees surprise briefly play across her face before her habitual shutters come down again. The ever-present cigarette in her hand is brought to her mouth, away and back again, a plume of smoke puffing out of her mouth. Her other hand is enclosed in both of his, skin flushed warm from the fire in the Spellmans' parlour, and his thumb is still stroking gently over her palm in the suddenly heavy silence. Admittedly, he's never done this before but he's fairly sure one of them should be saying something.

‘I... why?’ she finally says, meeting his gaze from underneath cosmetically-lengthened eyelashes. It's a fair enough question, he supposes, but not one for which he's prepared an answer. 

‘Why not?’ is his reply and he's fairly sure he isn't imagining the way the corners of her mouth curl up in the hint of a smile. She keeps his gaze as she takes another drag of her cigarette and he's just beginning to get impatient when she finally speaks again. 

‘Fine’ her voice is crisp and clear but its tone is so nonchalant it takes a moment for it to register with him. She's watching him with sharp eyes, the trademark Spellman self-assurance unmistakably intact and the desire to shatter it overwhelms him. After all, she won’t be a Spellman for long.

He takes her chin in his hand directing her face towards him for a possessive, bruising kiss. Laying claim to her mouth as a precursor of his intention to lay claim to the rest of her pleases him endlessly. His other hand slips down to caress her hip and Faustus feels rather than sees her discard the habitual cigarette-holder before her hand comes to rest on his shoulder. She tastes like the bitterness of her cigarette smoke, the waxiness of her lipstick, the richness of the wine abandoned on the coffee table and something else, exotic yet ever-present, that he's never quite been able to source. He almost loses himself in trying to place it when he feels her squirm against him and realises that his hand, quite of its own volition, has found its way under her dress. It's difficult not to smile and he relishes how fast her breathing is coming when he bends his head to her neck. Followers of the Dark Lord don't ascribe to the mortal tradition of wedding or engagement bands; their bodies and souls belong to the Lord Satan, how could they be rightfully marked as belonging to other witches? In lieu of a ring, Faustus settles for marking Zelda's deliciously unspoiled neck with a few choice bruises, holding her in place against the wall next to the hearth as he does so, her hand trailing through his hair. When he pulls his head up again, he's fully intent on reacquainting himself with that sweet mouth before she stops him with a hand to his chest.

‘Edward's in the kitchen' it's obviously meant as a warning but in her delicious, breathless voice it sounds more like an invitation and Faustus is dying to accept. He knows fine well that Zelda is fully incapable of being quiet and the thought of wiping the permanent smug smile from Edward's face by making him listen to his little sister moan as Faustus fucks her against the wall in the family parlour is almost too divine to pass up. But the knowing glimmer in her eyes makes it clear that she’s sussed out, at least in part, what his motivations are and Faustus has no intention of letting this engagement commence with his own inability to surprise her.

‘Then we ought to go and tell him the good news' he says but when she flashes him an amused glance, far too knowing, he can't resist biting down on that sumptuous bottom lip again. 

He hadn’t realised that being engaged would be such an educational experience but Faustus has found that tired old maxim to be true; you really do learn something new every day. Particularly when the subject you’re studying has as many fascinating facets as he’s learning Zelda Spellman does.

Within a week of his proposal, Faustus has found that he’s slightly more intimidated by his betrothed than he had expected to be. His antagonistic friendship with Edward had always meant that visits to the Spellman house were common so there’s nothing unusual about him dropping in unannounced. What is unusual, however, is being greeted with the vision of Zelda frowning at an account book over the top of a pair of tortoiseshell glasses and what’s even more unusual is how much he likes it. The purpose of his visit might have been to go over curriculum details with Edward but Faustus finds himself unwilling to pull himself away from his bride-to-be's arrangement of their ceremony. It isn’t the details of what she’s doing that he finds interesting; on the contrary, he could scarcely be less interested and even if he were, he trusts Zelda’s good taste to a fault. No, it’s the almost frightening precision and rigour with which she’s working away that he finds absolutely enthralling. So much so that he moves to slide a hand up her soft thigh, only for it to be slapped away with a wicked smile as she insists that she has to concentrate. A resistant Zelda is a fascinating phenomenon and even when Faustus does manage to tear himself away to attend to business, the image of a business-like Zelda chewing on her lower lip while meticulously examining the pros and cons of calla lilies will stay with him for some considerable time.

Ruthless pragmatism and assiduous organisational skills are a useful quality in the wife of a future High Priest, Faustus has no doubt, but they aren’t the only thing about Zelda he’s learning to find titillating. They’ve been engaged for perhaps three weeks when he rediscovers a collection of silver-set emeralds he’s fairly certain had belonged to his mother languishing in a drawer in the Blackwood manor. With a blast of sentimentality that disgusts him as soon as it surfaces, he finds himself comparing the stones to the colour of Zelda’s eyes. The sentiment disappears almost as soon as it had arisen but he still has the jewellery polished and delivered to the Spellman house. It’s not precisely the same as an engagement ring but Faustus finds himself taken with the idea of her wearing something that marks her out as his. Apparently, Zelda is quite taken with it too. The next time he sees her, she’s an armful of soft red hair and wriggling flesh, pressing him up against the inside of his office door the second he answers her knock. 

‘I’m visiting Edward but I just had to come and say thank you’ she says breathlessly when she finally pulls her mouth away from his, the pad of her thumb caressing the emerald tear-drop hanging from her ear.

‘My pleasure’ is his response, and it really is. They suit her as well as he’d imagined but if the visual effect is pleasing, her way of saying thank you is even more so. It becomes apparent quite quickly that Zelda has a vain, materialistic streak running through her a mile wide and he adores it, both as a man who isn’t averse to the finer things in life himself, and as a soon-to-be-husband looking for chinks in the armour of his soon-to-be-wife. 

What it takes him slightly longer to learn, however, is why these interesting little idiosyncrasies hadn’t come to his attention earlier. Although the vast majority of one-on-one time they’ve ever spent together has involved some sort of flat surface and a distinct lack of polite conversation and he can’t really claim to _know_ her, they’ve still been acquainted for more than a century. What eventually becomes clear to him is that while he can’t honestly say he has a full picture of Zelda Spellman, neither can anyone else. 

Over the last hundred years, a lot of the time he’s spent with Zelda has by necessity been spent with Edward too. He’d initially enjoyed observing the siblings’ good-natured rivalry, even if that enjoyment had been slightly eclipsed by the fruition of his own slightly more fraught rivalry with Edward. Even that has been enjoyable in its own way; whether they’ve been vying for an academic position or a chance with a woman or, more recently, Zelda’s attention, Faustus doesn’t quite know what his life looks like without Edward Spellman to challenge him. What he enjoys even more, though, is finding out that the Zelda he’s met with when they’re alone together is a completely different animal to Edward’s Sister Zelda. The latter is more reserved, cooler in temperament; still lively and intelligent but much more decorous than the former. That Zelda is understandably more passionate but also seems baser in general, more connected to the old, wild ways of the Church than her counterpart who slots right in with Edward’s progressively clean ideals. Different yet again, however, is Church of Night Zelda who is polite to a fault and despite being an obviously powerful witch, never puts a toe out of line or her head above water. And these are just the Zeldas he has occasion to observe; presumably, there are multitudes of others he never gets to see and he finds himself jealously wondering what she’s like when she’s alone with her brother or sister. It makes him question whether she’s putting on another studied face as Faustus’s Fiancée Zelda, or if his proposal has granted him access to something real. It’s dispiriting but he’s sure it must be the former. Does she practise in front of the mirror, having researched and refined the role she thinks he most wants her to play? Faustus is no stranger to wearing a mask when necessary but surely this bevy of façades can’t be sustainable in the long term. 

Perhaps once they’re married, he can begin breaking down those fascinatingly-constructed defences. Perhaps. 


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her tempestuous temperament is as exciting as it is frustrating and Faustus had quickly grown to realise that he'd much rather have a wife who occasionally throws really quite expensive crystal vases at his head than one with whom he'd pass tranquil evenings in decorous silence. In their first few years of marriage, he'd often heard it remarked that Lord and Lady Blackwood were a very well-matched pair and Faustus had been only too happy to agree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Gentle reminder to check the tags, just in case.  
> 2\. Another gentle reminder that Faustus's misogyny is his and not mine.  
> 3\. Thank you so very much for all the lovely comments about this, on here and on tumblr. Writing it was frankly a bit of a bitch so I'm glad people have been enjoying it! Your comments are always hugely appreciated.

Despite his protestations to the contrary, Faustus's pulse hadn't initially been set racing by the thought of marriage. He'd accepted it as a necessary, conventional evil and for a man who claims to be so liberated, he's always been bound to convention more than he'd ever admit. For the same reason, it had taken him some time to realise what a truly unusual woman he’d chosen to be his bride. He's spent a lot of time with women over his century and a half of existence, some might say an abundance, but he'd never really considered the inner workings of their minds before. He'd been taught that regardless of their power as witches, women should ultimately be delicate, unthreatening, _sweet_. These are attributes his mother and sisters had had in spades and it's only after some time living with Zelda that Faustus stops to consider that all that sweetness may have been hiding something far more steely. His wife is sweet when she wants to be, certainly, but it's not the clean, fresh sweetness he's used to. No, Zelda is the heavy sugar of overripe fruit and decaying flowers; while he's sure some would think it cloying, he'd swiftly found himself addicted. Not that sweetness is the only trait of hers he finds scintillating. Her tempestuous temperament is as exciting as it is frustrating and Faustus had quickly grown to realise that he'd much rather have a wife who occasionally throws really quite expensive crystal vases at his head than one with whom he'd pass tranquil evenings in decorous silence. In their first few years of marriage, he'd often heard it remarked that Lord and Lady Blackwood were a very well-matched pair and Faustus had been only too happy to agree.

It's not until almost two decades have gone by that the cracks begin to show. The passage of time isn't the problem; Faustus is sure that if left uninterrupted, they could have gone along in harmony for much longer. Harmony is a subjective term, of course. In one way or another, they fight practically constantly, from good-natured squabbling over Latin translations to stormy, furious rows that have a tendency to end in stormy, furious fucking. But as the fighting is their mutual preferred method of communication and their partnership has become a well-oiled machine in almost every respect, Faustus is scarcely able to remember how he managed without Zelda as the Josephine to his Napoleon. He's always been ruthlessly ambitious but his wife has really pushed him to the peak.

That's why it's so bitterly, life-alteringly surprising when the Council announces they've elected her brother as their new High Priest.

He feels as though the ground has disappeared beneath his feet, as though he's about to drop a thousand miles into the depths of Hell with no mercy from the Dark Lord and no recourse to climb out again. If praising Satan hadn't instantly become the last thing he's inclined to do, Faustus would thank the Dark Lord for the mastery he has over his own features as he manages to join in the applause for his old friend and rival without a twitch. He's internally aflame with pure, unadulterated rage and it's threatening to consume him. When the cheering stops and he finds the strength to glance down at his wife beside him, it does. The joy shining on her face is enough to make him want to burn the whole place down and force the ashes down Edward's throat until the man is choking on embers like Faustus is choking on envy. 

He doesn't, of course. Doesn't do anything more than coolly excuse himself from the evening's celebrations, not trusting himself to stay. It's not the done thing and Zelda looks fleetingly displeased when he takes his leave but it doesn't seem as though anything could really dent the Spellman bubble of elation at present. His evening is spent alone, getting steadily drunker and drunker on the whisky Zelda likes to save for special occasions, and sketching out new hexes on copies of his old research papers, curses that would wipe the smug smile right off Edward's face. Most of them couldn't possibly work but it's cathartic. He's even begun to feel a fraction better when the front door slams and the familiar sounds of his wife tipsily making her way up the stairs reach his ears. As she gets closer, Faustus can hear her humming to herself and the noise of her happiness fills Faustus’s stomach with smoky black anger to the brim again.

When she opens the door to their bedroom, she's a picture of radiant joy. Her hair, properly pinned up when she'd left the house earlier that evening, has fallen down around her shoulders and her cheeks are stained pink with celebration as well as alcohol. She looks rumpled and delicious and normally he wouldn't wait a minute before taking her to bed. Today, however, the sight of her rapturous and happy makes him rage and he takes a vicious delight in the way her smile dims a little when she catches sight of him glowering in his chair. Slipping her heels off, Zelda comes to perch on the arm of his chair. Curling herself around him as best she can, she presses her mouth to his forehead and it's evidently supposed to be soothing but Faustus is merely irritated.

‘Faustus, I'm sorry. I know how much you... well, I know’ she sounds sincere enough but he can feel how flushed with elation she is, catches the intermingling scents of decadence clinging to her hair and clothes, and is far from soothed.

‘Do you?’ he snaps, not bothering to attempt to conceal his fury. Why should he, when she'd made her joy so disgustingly obvious? ‘You're plainly _thrilled_.’

‘Well, of course I'm pleased. I prayed with everything in me that it would be you but Edward is my brother, you can't expect me to not be happy for him' her hand is running through his hair, her voice soft like she's talking to a foolish child and he can't take it. In a heartbeat he's standing, leaves her wobbling on the arm of the chair without him to lean against.

‘Don’t lie to me, sweetheart’ he snarls, pacing up and down next to their bed like a caged animal. He feels like one too, tensed and ready to snap at the slightest provocation. ‘You're a thousand times happier than if it had been me, don't tell me that you were praying for _my_ investiture. Wouldn't be the first time you'd been on your knees for your brother, would it?’ 

Zelda flinches as surely as if he'd slapped her but she doesn't answer, doesn't need to. The way she looks at him as she bites down on her bottom lip does that for her. There's still pity in her eyes and he absolutely cannot stand it. 

‘Tell me, I beg you, exactly what's so wonderful about the incredible Edward Spellman? You're obviously an expert on the subject, tell me precisely what he has that I don't have' his voice is getting louder and louder, and he's sure Zelda has a million answers on the tip of her tongue but she gives none of them. Instead, she rises to her feet and sways towards him, looking up into his eyes with her own piercing green ones. 

‘I know something you have that he doesn't' she murmurs, hooking her arms around his iron-tense neck and pressing herself up against him in a way that he surely shouldn't still be finding indecently arousing after two decades of marriage. ‘Something that's yours, completely, something Edward can never have.’

It's a cheap ploy, really. They both know that her brother has always been an exposed nerve for him, possibly the only person on this earth who can really get under his skin and make him feel inferior (apart from her, a little voice in his head chimes in but he brushes it away as best as he can). And they're both equally aware that he's never been able to quell the jealousy that bubbles up in his chest when confronted with evidence of their impossibly close bond, even if he can never decide exactly where that jealousy should be directed. Zelda has never been quite as subtle in her Machiavellian antics as she thinks she is and Faustus can practically see the cogs turning inside that beautiful head. But it wouldn't be true to claim that her little strategy isn't working. 

The idea of fucking Edward's little sister into oblivion, completely ruining her, possessing her while the man himself bloviates over sherry with a gaggle of ancient warlocks is too tempting to pass up. Even after twenty years, Faustus never really feels that Zelda is his. Of the two of them, he's far more inclined to physical infidelity but his mind and soul are firmly locked down here with her. As far as he knows, Zelda's body is his territory alone but her heart and mind are perpetually three miles south in the crumbling old house where she was born, and it drives him mad.

So he kisses her, hard and domineering. Zelda is evidently relieved, melts into him like she has done a thousand times before but she's fooling herself if she thinks he's going to make it easy for her. Her arms are still locked round his head but when he pulls her hair back sharply, she drops them with a gasp and he uses the opportunity to pin them behind her back. With one hand keeping her arms restrained, he drops the other one from tangling in her hair to lift her skirt, passing the material into the hand that's holding her arms so he can better explore. Zelda is practically panting and when his fingers reach underneath her underwear, he finds her soaking, dripping wet. Faustus knows that she gets ridiculously eager when he's rough but it's difficult to believe that this level of excitement could have stemmed from one vicious kiss. The image floods his mind of her wandering around wet and wanting all evening, aroused to distraction by the fact that she's now the kin of their Lord's representative on earth and he slams her back against the wall as best he can with one arm behind her back. 

‘This had better be for me, my love’ he warns her and Zelda groans as his thumb makes broad, too-gentle strokes. 

‘Always. Oh Satan, Faustus, _please_ ’ it feels good to hear her beg, feels even better when she tries her best to fuck his hand despite her restricted position. He loves fucking Zelda for a myriad of reasons but one of the chief ones is how greedy she is. In all areas of life, she _wants_ , that's irrefutable; his wife is always hungering for something, whether it's presents or power. But it's only here, like this, that she's so gorgeously blatant about it, so willing to lay her need bare for him. Faustus is still burningly angry but it assuages his fury just a little to see her so entirely desperate for him. He's as hard as he can ever remember being in his life, and if he can't tell whether it's his own anger or her wantonness that has him so, well, the end result is much the same. 

Letting her arms free to better pin her in place against the wall, he does little more than unbuckle his trousers before sheathing himself inside her. Zelda is always wild and voracious, more so when she's taken drink and even more so when she feels herself close to Satan. Tonight is no exception. She's hitched her legs around his waist and is quite frankly moaning like she's charging by the hour as he moves inside her. Her sweet mouth is parted and her eyes are fluttering closed in gratifying ecstasy but that's not something he's prepared to put up with this evening. He'll be thrice damned before he lets even the possibility occur of her thinking about someone, something else. 

‘Keep those pretty eyes open, sweetheart, or you'll find yourself going to bed very unsatisfied’ he'd describe the noise Zelda makes in response to this suggestion as a snarl, if it wasn't still deliciously feminine. Still, her eyes open and lock onto his, heavy with lust, and Faustus can't restrain a cruelly satisfied smile. When his nails dig themselves into her flesh, marking, claiming, Zelda's head tips back and hits the wall with a resounding smack that makes her moans even louder. His rage is still roaring but Faustus has lost the concentration needed to distinguish it from desire and he's utterly consumed by her. 

His back and shoulders are a mess of claw marks on a permanent basis (it's well within his power to simply vanish them but for reasons he's never needed to explain to her, he never does) and as he fucks his wife into the wall, he can feel her nails once again raking over old scars that have barely healed. Faustus likes to think of it as gorgeous serendipity that her expressions of passion are the very things that ignite his own and of their own accord, his hips are driving into her harder and harder as her fingertips slice into his skin. It's messy and vicious and rough and neither of them are sober; it's _exactly_ what he'd had in mind when he gave in to her machinations. Zelda's eyes are still open as he'd instructed but she's twisting and writhing so much that he can barely meet her gaze. The signs of her impending orgasm are as familiar to him as those of his own and for a moment he's tempted to stop, deny Zelda her pleasure so she can feel a fraction of the frustration he feels. But it is just for a moment; Faustus quickly decides that he'll achieve his goal far more easily by making her whole body shake, making her that delectable, quivering wreck he so adores. So he does, keeping her upright with one hand as the other snakes between their joined bodies to rub hard, forceful circles between her thighs in the manner that he's long since learned makes her yell until she's hoarse. He isn't disappointed; Zelda's legs kick out like a woman possessed and the wrecked sound of her voice as she chants his name wrings his own orgasm out of him as much as the tight clench of her cunt does. 

They're both panting like animals when he finally ceases his movements but Zelda is looking at him with a very human tenderness that Faustus suddenly realises he's still too furious to bear. He pulls out and away, and as Zelda doesn't get her legs down to support herself in time, she slides to the floor with a bump. Her thighs are still shaking, he can see, but he certainly has no intention of helping her up again. Instead, he settles himself on their bed, picks up a book so he can better pretend to ignore the weight of his wife pressing against his back. 

‘I am, you know’ Zelda's low voice is practically a purr as she winds herself around him ‘Yours.’ 

It should be tantalising, satisfying. If only he didn't know exactly what a wonderful liar he'd married.

At Edward’s initiation, Lord and Lady Blackwood are the picture of propriety. No expression but those of good will and happiness pass over Faustus's features and if he occasionally has to clench his fists tighter than a drum to make it so, only the wife holding his hand has any idea. 


	3. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In his youth, Faustus had been firmly of the opinion that variety was the spice of life. Still, routine has proved to be exponentially more pleasurable than he could ever have imagined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this has been lying untouched for so long (and that it's rather short)! Real life and all that, updates should be a little more speedy from now on. Hope you enjoy!

In his youth, Faustus had been firmly of the opinion that variety was the spice of life. He'd prided himself on his unpredictability, rarely spending more than a night in the same bed or a week in the same city if he could help it. It's not that he no longer holds this opinion; he still gets the itch to break routine, still frequently finds himself fleeing without a word to anyone to Geneva or Cairo for an afternoon spent in a stranger's bed, still feels a physical discomfort when faced with any form of monotony. But if there's one thing he knows for a fact, it's that his younger self would have abhorred the life he's living now, a life which Faustus has become far more fond of than he would ever care to admit.

  
Truth be told, his younger self couldn't even begin to know what he's missing out on. Routine can be exponentially more pleasurable than he had ever have imagined. Coming home every evening to a luxurious residence and an extravagantly well-stocked liquor cabinet is undeniably delightful but it's nothing that every other man in his position doesn't also have in his possession. What really completes the picture is the delicious certainty of knowing that in one of those opulently-decorated rooms will be his wife, and where Zelda is concerned, that's where the certainty stops. Even after half a century of marriage, she's never failed to surprise him. For someone so outwardly devoted to rules and traditions, the woman is capricious to an extreme and it's almost enough to banish tedium from his life altogether. He might know that he's coming home to Zelda on a daily basis but he's never quite sure which Zelda it will be; the exhausted midwife, curling up next to him with a stiff drink and the glow of a job well done; the quick-witted scholar, sitting on his lap to make irritatingly accurate corrections to his translations; the lover, predatorily amorous from the minute he walks through the door to the minute he buries himself inside her. She does indeed contain multitudes and Faustus couldn't pick a favourite facet under threat of excommunication and eternal immolation.

  
Still, he can't deny particularly enjoying Zelda when she's angry. Not when she's angry with him, necessarily (that can be incredibly stimulating but make-up sex always seems to come with a price of her destroying his favourite belongings. He wouldn't mind but really, Fabergé only made so many imperial eggs), but when her rage is directed at something beyond the walls of their personal den of iniquity, Faustus can't claim to mind when she takes it out on him. So, when the slam of the front door reverberates throughout the house and the click of heels pounding a punishing beat on the floorboards reaches his ears, it sets his heartbeat racing just a little.

  
‘You'll never believe it' Zelda stands in the doorway of his study, her frame as stiff and taut as that of the heavy oak door. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes are bright with something that he knows quite well is rage and when she pushes the door shut with enough force to rock the house's foundations, he's fairly sure he can see her hands shaking. As she comes towards him, Faustus only raises an enquiring eyebrow. Satan knows, his wife needs precious little encouragement to embark on a venomous tirade.

  
‘My dear, devoted brother, the veritable apple of the Dark Lord's eye' Zelda's voice is dripping with pure poison. He can't begin to imagine what's stoked up such vitriol- vitriol usually reserved for those who don't possess the Spellman moniker- but Faustus can't pretend he isn't rather enjoying it. He's certainly never heard her speak about Edward with such vehement disgust but he would be lying if he said it didn't give him a little kick of sadistic, jealous pleasure. ‘The High Priest of the Church of Night in his infinite fucking wisdom, has decided that he wants to _marry_ that tawdry, two-bit harlot of a mortal.’

  
Faustus hears what Zelda is saying but it takes a few moments for the words to really sink in. He knows exactly which woman she's describing; an insipid little thing who's been hanging around the Spellman house for months and to whom Faustus has paid no more attention than he would have to a mouse in the skirting board. It's not unheard of, not even unusual, for witches and warlocks to take mortals to bed but any kind of meaningful connection is unacceptable, unnatural. He's listened to Zelda complain at length about her brother's dalliance with this mortal piece of fluff but in all honesty, he'd assumed it was nothing more than Edward's way of proving how _progressive_ he thinks he is. There's no way the man can be serious; Faustus isn't nearly as religiously zealous as the High Priest and his sister but he still can't imagine being willing to risk the Dark Lord's wrath for any other being, let alone a nothing little mortal. As these cogs turn over in his brain, however, he realises his own wife is still speaking.

  
‘After spending years, decades, chiding me for every slight misstep, any tiny error that might incur the Dark Lord's displeasure and he _dares_ to even contemplate this? He spoke as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if I'm the one who's unreasonable for pointing out his absolute insanity! After all the grief he gave me for-' Zelda meets his eyes briefly when she breaks off and although she doesn't continue, it's crystal clear what she had been about to say. She thinks he's unaware of her brother's disdain for their union. She's wrong. The man had made very little attempt to conceal the fact that he thought Faustus wasn't nearly good enough to be marrying his sister and now this? Faustus can understand exactly why Zelda's blood is boiling as the temperature of his own is elevating rapidly.

Vigorously shaking her head, she moves to make herself a drink, pours it down her throat and immediately makes another. When she comes to perch on the arm of his chair, Zelda's voice is still laden with bitterness.

  
‘Marrying a mortal. _Men_. There isn't a single one of you that's capable of thinking with anything other than your cocks' she spits out and although he knows on an intellectual level that this isn't really the time to try and get her to tumble onto his lap, Faustus can't help but note how ridiculously beautiful she is when she's angry. His hand comes up to stroke her lower back in an ostensibly soothing gesture but Zelda just rolls her eyes. ‘Thank you for proving my point so very efficiently.’

  
‘It'll pass' he says idly, ignoring her jibe at him in favour of drawing his hand down over her hip to rest on the soft material draped over her thigh. He's known Edward for a very long time and the man has always been full of big ideas and absolutely no follow-through. ‘He'll bed her, get bored of her and get her out of his system.’

  
‘If you say so. That particular method didn't seem to work very well for my unsuitable engagement' she says dryly, and Faustus loses his grasp on the very little restraint he'd been showing. With a sharp tug, he pulls her down onto his lap; the drink in her hand splashes over his shirt but it's more than worth it in exchange for the warmth of her against him.

  
‘I'm flattered to learn I was ever in your system, Zelda. How did you manage to get rid of me?’ the anger is still plainly visible on her face but as she looks down at him now, it's joined there by a hunger that he knows very well. She always fucks so beautifully when she's angry.

  
‘I'll let you know when I succeed' Zelda brings her hand up to tip her half-empty glass against his lips and when he swallows, the sharp edge of the whiskey is a pleasant contrast to the softness of her thighs against his own. There's the clunk of the heavy crystal tumbler being placed on his desk before two hands slide into his hair and she's tasting the alcohol on his lips, as greedy as if she hadn't touched a drop for days, as if he hadn't lazily fucked her in their first moments of consciousness ten hours previously. As he slides his hands up her ribcage to begin unbuttoning the annoyingly fiddly fastenings of her dress, Faustus thinks to himself that he really must remember to thank Edward for the furious vigour with which his little sister is grinding her delicious cunt against his thigh.

  
As it turns out, Faustus has a lot to thank Edward for before long. When the wedding invitation arrives, Zelda takes far too much masochistic pleasure in burning it to cinders with the lighter Edward had bought her in Paris thirty years earlier. They don't attend the wedding, and for that Edward appears to be just as furious with Zelda as Zelda is with him. She stops popping over to her childhood home day and night, makes sure to visit her sister and nephew only when there's not even a microscopic chance of running into her big brother and his mortal concubine. Faustus feels a flicker of pity for his wife, of course, but if anything, he's almost more sorry for Edward; chained to his bond with mortal chattel, subject of some rather vicious rumours Faustus categorically denies starting, and deprived of his intimate closeness with Zelda, a closeness which Faustus is more than happy to supersede. Although he never quite manages to articulate the thought, he's fairly sure that having a monopoly on Zelda is practically worth a priesthood. 


	4. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone has weaknesses. Zelda just happens to be his. In Faustus's defence, he's always been far too inclined to be possessive, always let his jealous nature creep into the rational parts of his brain and cloud over his otherwise impeccable judgement. It's simply turned out that something about Zelda (and for the life of him, he can't figure out what) amplifies that possessiveness, turns it into something tight and twisting and grasping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, I'm sorry this has been such a long time coming! It's longish and dirty so hopefully you'll forgive me. 
> 
> Usual notes; Faustus Blackwood is not a good person, this is not the model for a healthy relationship, I'm the worst etc. etc.  
> Enjoy!

Everyone has weaknesses. Zelda just happens to be his. In Faustus's defence, he's always been far too inclined to be possessive, always let his jealous nature creep into the rational parts of his brain and cloud over his otherwise impeccable judgement. It's simply turned out that something about Zelda (and for the life of him, he can't figure out what) amplifies that possessiveness, turns it into something tight and twisting and grasping. Well, perhaps simple isn't quite the word. She could come home covered in lovebites and bruises and teeth marks and Faustus is fairly sure that he'd be nothing more than slightly annoyed, although this theory hasn't yet been put to the test. But when he hears her sardonic laugh entwine with her little sister's higher one or sees her lean in to whisper conspiratorially to her brother, something ugly has always tied his stomach in knots. It's not a sensation he's ever discussed with Zelda, obviously; when he's feeling particularly melancholic, he tortures himself with visions of the pitying, lukewarm fondness on her face if he ever did and it's not something he's keen to experience in the flesh.

  
That's why Faustus had thanked the Dark Lord on bended knee for Edward Spellman's ridiculous excuse for a marriage. It's been more than a year, and although Zelda no longer refuses to see her brother and his mousy consort, now it's Faustus she comes to first with private jokes, midwifery worries, hieroglyph translation queries and anything in between. He tells himself repeatedly that his gratification is only seemly, that he'd been concerned about the optics of a wife who spent every spare minute running off to her childhood home, but he can't even pretend to believe it.

  
It's not permanent, of course. If he's learned anything in his two centuries of serving the Dark Lord, it's that everything comes with a price; so it's difficult to see what happens next as anything other than the price he has to pay for his period of contentment. The Church of Night may only have one commandment but one often forgets when one is following it that doing what thou wilt often comes with unexpected consequences. This shouldn't be unexpected, perhaps, but it's certainly fucking unwelcome.

  
When he arrives home, Faustus is instantly hit with the impression that something isn't quite right. It's not the quiet and darkness permeating through the house, that isn't unusual. He's quite late and his wife could easily be in bed; he hopes that she is, that he'll be met with an armful of amorous Zelda so he can lazily fuck the day's petty trivialities away before melting into luxurious sleep. Before he mounts the stairs to find out, however, his attention is caught by the glowing of a faint light from the drawing room and proceeds to investigate.

  
There's only one lamp lit but it's enough for him to make out the familiar figure of his wife sitting stock still on the chaise, not even a cigarette being lifted to her lips. It isn't until he switches on another that he can see the cold disapproval in her eyes and it transfixes him to such an extent that it takes far longer than it should for Faustus to notice what she's sitting next to. It's some sort of woven basket he doesn't recognise, about the length of Zelda's shin as one delicate leg is stretched out on the seat. He can't imagine what it could contain that's making his wife look at him like he's a beetle to be crushed under foot rather than greeting him with a warm embrace but as he approaches and gets a glimpse of its contents, Faustus's heart drops into his stomach.

  
The basket contains a small, sleeping child, a woollen blanket and a stark white envelope. It's the latter that Zelda reaches for and hands to him, taking great care not to let her hand touch his.

  
‘I hope you don't think me terribly rude for opening the letter. It's addressed to you, of course, and I know that you should never open another person's correspondence but the circumstances seemed exceptional' she lights a cigarette now and he notices that her hand is as steady as a surgeon's.

  
The letter says exactly what he expects it to say. The child, unnamed, is his misbegotten progeny whose mother (name scribbled at the bottom of the page but he’s having serious difficulty remembering her face) scrawled out this epistle before apparently taking a long trip off a short precipice. Faustus reads it once, and then twice more while he thinks of what he can possibly say to his wife.

  
‘The orphanage at the Academy-‘ he begins but the arch of Zelda's eyebrow stops him in his tracks.

  
‘What _about_ the orphanage at the Academy, Faustus?’ In Satan's name, she's formidable when she wants to be.

  
‘I can deposit the child there in the morning-' once again, he doesn't get the chance to finish his sentence.

  
‘You will do absolutely nothing of the sort. I understand that family evidently means precious little to you but we aren't all so devoid of feeling. It's not the girl's fault that you're unable to control yourself, why should she be punished for it?’

  
‘Zelda, you cannot seriously be suggesting that we raise this... my...’ It's probably for the best that he can't quite find the word. His wife has obviously cracked and it doesn't seem like the ideal time to provoke her.

  
‘Suggesting? No, Faustus, I'm telling you. Perhaps it might be enough to drill into your self-centered skull that your actions have consequences. For all of us’ she stands, makes her way to the door with a face completely devoid of expression but pauses before going through it. ‘There was no mention of a name in that fascinating little note. As it seems that you're in need of regular reminders of the proper way to behave, I thought perhaps Prudence would be appropriate’ with that, she's disappeared through the doorway. Zelda will change her mind, he's sure, but for now she's left Faustus alone with a child he never wanted and a very unfamiliar sense of guilt.

  
Needless to say, she doesn't change her mind. In retrospect, he can't really be surprised that Zelda takes to motherhood like a duck to water; despite the severe exterior, she's a nurturer if he's ever seen one, and has enough dictatorial spirit in her to delight in enforcing the strict routine that he's been informed is essential for infant development. Still, he hadn't expected her to be quite so enthusiastic. They've never discussed it but prior to the unexpected arrival, he'd assumed she held the same apathetic disinterest in children as him, viewed them as a necessary evil. Apparently not. She certainly prefers the baby to him, for the first few months at least, lavishing it- her- with uncharacteristically sugary affection while treating him like a houseguest who'd slightly overstayed his welcome. As with all things, though, this doesn't last. He suspects that her cold shoulder had been more a matter of principle than a symptom of any deep emotional wounds and it doesn't take an awfully long time before they're back in their own individual style of matrimonial harmony (which involves slightly fewer lamps-thrown-at-heads now there's a baby in the house, but only slightly).

  
Edward disapproves, of course. As far as the rest of the coven is concerned, Prudence is an unexpected adoptee, the daughter of a dear old friend who'd quite suddenly gone to meet her maker, but Zelda had known that her family wouldn't believe it for a second. Although he keeps it to himself, Faustus isn't convinced that everyone else believes it either; he's seen knowing looks passing between gossiping old hens when Zelda shows the baby off at Black Mass but if his wife has noticed too, she's remained supremely unruffled. She's much more disturbed by her brother's displeasure, that much is clear, even when she claims otherwise. Faustus himself couldn't care less. Edward has fabricated himself a list of reasons a mile long to prove his unsuitability for Zelda and it's never made a blind bit of difference.

  
And now Faustus is finally confident that it never will. They're a unit, the three of them, albeit an unconventional one. It's rare now that he feels that ugly twist of jealousy in his stomach, or the sneaking suspicion that Zelda's mind is straying when she's with him. It isn't just in the domestic sphere that things are improving, either; when Edward takes Diana to Europe for their second anniversary, Faustus is asked to deliver a lecture to the New England Council of Witches in his stead and even if that hadn't filled him to the brim with self-satisfaction, Zelda's smug smile certainly would have.

  
Zelda isn't the only one with perfectionism drilled into her system, so it's past the witching hour on the eve of his speech and Faustus is still working. The bedroom is a bombsite of books and paper, so much so that he'd temporarily banned Zelda from smoking in there lest the whole place go up like a powder keg. As a consequence, when she comes upstairs to bed, she doesn't quite have his full attention. She's wrapped in some silken green concoction that he doesn't think he's seen before but Faustus still only gives a passing appreciative glance to the way it falls over her curves before turning back to his books.

  
‘Is there room for your wife in that bed or have I been supplanted?’ Her hand rests lightly on his shoulder and he kisses the inside of her wrist before gathering a sheaf of papers over from her side of the bed. Faustus moves to collect some more, to move his work over to the big oak desk in the corner of the room but she makes a noise of displeasure and tugs him back by his shirt.

  
‘You know, there's only so many times you can read the same words over and over. I'm sure it's perfect' she purrs, curling herself in next to him to rest her head on his shoulder ‘My intelligent, important husband.’

  
‘Zelda' he says warningly, looking at the picture of amused mock innocence on her face. ‘Behave yourself.’

  
‘I'm merely trying to be a supportive spouse, Professor Blackwood’ she sounds sugary sweet, or she would have if her words weren't accompanied by her leg hooking over his thighs so he can feel the heat of her bare cunt against his hip, flimsy nightgown riding up to the tops of her own thighs. ‘I'm so _proud_ of you, after all.’

  
‘ _Zelda_ ' he repeats, with an irritation in his voice that he doesn't really feel ‘Stop. Now. I'm sure even you can go one evening without getting fucked. And if you can't, you're going to have to learn to very quickly.’

  
With an appraising look that worries him a little more than it possibly should, Zelda raises her eyebrows and rolls over onto her back. The thought briefly crosses his mind that that was far too easy but Faustus doesn't pay it any more attention. Nor does he pay it any attention when he feels her tossing and turning and wriggling next to him on the mattress. It's only when a breathy sigh reaches his ears that Faustus's eyes snap over to the figure lying next to him; the nightdress is lying crumpled on the floor and one of Zelda's hands is plunging two fingers in and out of her cunt while the other teases a rosy nipple, her eyes shut and mouth open in a picture of exaggerated ecstasy

  
It's a red rag to a bull and, damn it, he takes the bait far too easily, flings his papers to the floor. His hands don't even attempt to be gentle when he grabs her, pulls her wriggling body in between his legs and holds her to him far too tightly to possibly be comfortable.

  
‘Is this what you wanted?’ his voice is low, threatening, and he relishes the way it makes her pulse skip just a little just as much as he loves the sound she makes when his teeth puncture the beautiful unmarred skin of her shoulder. ‘You wanted to know that you have the power to distract me from the Dark Lord, Zelda? That filling your needy little cunt is as important to me as my sacred duties?’  
When he drives two fingers inside of her, it's in one hard and impatient movement that turns her noise of assent into a loud, abandoned moan as she tries her best to fuck herself on his hand despite her lack of mobility and he can't help feeling rather pleased with himself.

  
‘My wanton little infidel.’ He's never been able to resist touching that glorious mane of soft, silky hair and so he fists his hand in it near the base of her neck, keeps her pulled flush against him as he fucks her in earnest.

  
'You have no sense of propriety at all, do you? All those pretty suits and all that posturing superiority are just trying to hide what a greedy, shameless harlot you are' having her naked and wanting between his legs while he's still fully-clothed, not a hair out of place apart from the erection brushing against the small of her back, is intoxicating. 'You think nobody knows, sweetheart, but I know. And the Dark Lord knows.'

  
She whines at that, there's no other way to describe the desperate, keening sound coming from her lips. It's at times like these that he's almost glad he hasn't been made High Priest; Zelda's already ravenous sexual appetite would no doubt be revved up to an extent that just might kill him.

  
‘Such a selfish slut. What do you think our master would say if he was watching now, Zelda?’ Praise Satan, the way she tightens around his fingers is priceless and does a very good job of spurring him on. ‘I think he'd adore it. Maybe he'd want you for himself, sweetheart, who wouldn't?’

  
If he hadn’t been able to tell that she was close already, the nails digging so hard into his thigh that he's sure there'll be four little crescent moon scars there for the foreseeable future would have given it away. He wishes his wife could see herself, spread out like a virgin sacrifice with glassy, unfocused eyes, writhing and sighing and desperate for him. The hypnotic undulation of her hips into his hand is so distracting that it takes a good few moments before Faustus realises there's a very simple way to make that happen.

  
As swiftly as he'd entered her, Faustus withdraws his hand from between her thighs and can't stop himself from laughing at the way Zelda twists round to look at him like he'd just wrung the neck of her awful familiar in front of her.

  
'Patience is a virtue, my love.'

  
'Virtue is for people who have nothing else to recommend them' when she grabs at his hand and brings it to her lips to taste herself, Faustus knows he's struck on a winning decision. With a snap of his fingers, there's a loud creak and then the long, gilt-edged mirror that rests in the corner of the room has made its way to a new position at the foot of their bed. Instead of looking into Zelda's eyes, he watches their reflection and can't claim to be disappointed with what he sees.

  
The noise that comes out of Zelda's mouth when she realises what's happening is more erotic than anything he's ever experienced in any Parisian burlesque or Dutch brothel. Faustus wishes he'd forgone any of the preliminaries so he could see just how wet his lovely wife can get with only the stimulus of her own reflection but from the way she grinds back into him, a hand immediately sliding between her legs to replace his as his own move to cup her breasts, he's fairly sure he can guess.

  
And he certainly can't blame her; sometimes on waking, before he's even opened his eyes and seen her pretty head on the pillow, just knowing that she's lying next to him is enough to make his cock stir. Seeing her like this, utterly resplendent in a haze of lust so thick he can practically see it shimmering in the air, is another matter entirely.

  
‘Make yourself come for me, beautiful’ he murmurs against her ear but Zelda certainly doesn't seem to need the encouragement. Her legs are shaking as she rubs hard, hard circles over her delicious swollen clit and she doesn't seem to know where to look; her eyes are desperately darting between her own fingers on her dripping cunt, his on her luscious tits, and the flushed, open-mouthed ecstasy of her face. It's a conundrum with which he's very familiar, which part of Zelda requires the most attention at any given moment. Faustus doesn't play favourites, of course, but he would admit to having a particular fondness for the lovely, ripe tits he's currently toying with slightly more forcefully than strictly necessary in an attempt to keep himself focused on something other than the thought of burying his cock in that sticky sweet cunt.

  
‘Look at you. No wonder I can't keep my hands off you, Zelda’ she makes a noise of purring approval, breath coming in short, sharp bursts, and Faustus doesn't, can't, restrain the urge to grind his aching cock against that gorgeous, plump backside. ‘Do you remember on your birthday last year when I made you come just by playing with these perfect tits?’

  
He'd been aiming for a conversational, casual tone and doesn't quite manage it; his voice comes out low and hungry but at least it's nowhere near as desperate as her's.

  
‘Two years ago' Zelda responds breathlessly but her eyes don't move from their path along her own body.

  
‘Hmm?’ he summons as much faux-disinterest as he can muster, giving the delightful objects in question a firm squeeze.

  
‘It was two- oh!- two years ago' for the first time since the mirror appeared, Zelda meets his eyes in the glass. ‘I've been waiting for a repeat performance.’

  
Well, nobody could expect him to feign disinterest at _that_. Faustus growls, releasing his wife's pretty tits to give her juttering hips a tight squeeze instead, yanking at them so her lovely arse brushes firmly against his straining cock.

  
‘Perhaps you've done nothing to deserve it. Only good girls get treats, you know' she whimpers, high and needy ‘Be a good girl, sweetheart. Come for me.'

  
Faustus truly thinks he would be willing to never hear another sound again if he could just listen to the noises Zelda makes when she comes on a loop for the rest of his life. She doesn't scream, not exactly; it's lower than that, guttural, like it's being ripped from the core of her and making her shake and tremble as it comes out. It's easy to take for granted that his wife is a creature built from avaricious lust and selfish need but now, watching her watch herself fall apart in his lap, in his bed, Faustus is overcome by it, swallowed up by that righteous passion. He _wants_ and not for the first time, not for the hundredth, he's alarmed by how much he just wants _her_.

  
Zelda is sprawled back against his chest, still sounding almost dangerously breathless. Faustus brings her limp hand to his lips and licks lasciviously along her index finger before sucking the three middle digits into his mouth. He's addicted to the sharp, tart taste of her but has to pull his mouth away again when Zelda mewls and wriggles, quite deliberately, against his aching erection.

  
‘Teasing little minx’ he growls and sees her smile grow wide in the mirror as she pushes her hips back in a much slower movement this time.

  
‘Well, I certainly didn't mean to tease you, Faustus, I'm terribly sorry. Perhaps I ought to let you get back to work?’

  
‘You'll stay right here where you belong, Lady Blackwood’ as if to illustrate the point, he runs his hands along the insides of her thighs, spreading her open for him again.

  
‘And where is that, exactly? In the interest of clarity?’ Damn her, she won't stop grinding that delicious arse into his lap and he's going to fucking lose it.

  
‘Sitting on my cock, sweetheart. In the interest of clarity.’ His voice is playful but the way he bites at her neck is not. He wants to flip her onto her front and pound her into the mattress until she's hoarse, wants to sink his teeth into that pretty plump backside, wants to tie her to the bed post and tease her til she's begging for his cock, he just wants to consume her and be consumed. It wouldn't bother him, only he's sure that you're not supposed to be this cuntstruck after decades of marriage (it bothers him more when he lets himself admit that being cuntstruck is only the tip of the iceberg, so he doesn't).

  
Ultimately, though, Faustus doesn't really mind as much as he ought to. It's dangerous, being so utterly wrapped up in her, but he's never paid that much heed to danger. They're bound to each other, he finally has some reason to believe that Zelda is his. He can only pray it's going to last.


	5. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wouldn’t be entirely accurate to say that he’d never liked Edward Spellman. Mostly accurate, but not entirely. Despite his serious flaws as a brother-in-law and utter pig-headed arrogance as a High Priest, the man had been a decent student and a talented warlock and Faustus has to admit to having a certain amount of grudging respect for the mortal-loving prick. Still, he can’t claim to be very sorry that he’s dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endless apologies for the delay! Hope you enjoy the penultimate chapter. 
> 
> Warning for some slight double-sided dubcon.

It wouldn’t be entirely accurate to say that he’d never liked Edward Spellman. Mostly accurate, but not entirely. Despite his serious flaws as a brother-in-law and utter pig-headed arrogance as a High Priest, the man had been a decent student and a talented warlock and Faustus has to admit to having a certain amount of grudging respect for the mortal-loving prick. Still, he can’t claim to be very sorry that he’s dead.

  
If the world had revolved around Edward when he still had blood pumping through his veins, it’s nothing compared to the fuss now he’s six feet under. It seems more than a little unreasonable to Faustus that so much attention should be lavished on someone who’s already reaping his eternal reward but it would be more than his own life is worth to say so; the entire coven is apparently so fucking bereft that he’s honestly surprised that they haven’t collectively tried to jump in Edward’s grave and cosy up to his corpse. Although in fairness, he doesn’t have much room to criticise anyone for an increase in their extremity of feeling towards the departed High Priest; he wouldn’t have thought it possible but Faustus has found himself becoming more and more jealous of the late Edward Spellman.

  
At first he’d attempted to keep it in check, telling himself repeatedly that he was being utterly ridiculous. The depths of Zelda’s sorrow might have seemed extreme to him, but his relationship with his own sisters in the old country was hardly comparable to the irritating closeness of the Spellman siblings. But the weeks had gone by and if anything, his wife’s grief had deepened to an extent that Faustus doesn’t really have the vocabulary to describe. Oh, in public she seems fine, practically the picture of indifference but at home it’s a very different story. She won’t touch him, barely even speaks to him; every time he so much as lays a hand on her shoulder, she flinches away like she’s been burnt and practically every spare moment is spent running off to the Spellman house. Faustus could deal perfectly ably with a little feminine weeping but this, he would have no idea how to handle even if she’d let him. And really, it isn’t seemly. Her sister seems to be dealing perfectly appropriately; every time he’d seen her for the first few weeks after Edward’s death, she’d been swollen-eyed and red-faced but now she was back to a slightly subdued version of her usual self, busy running that money-sink of a mortuary and attending to Edward’s unfortunate half-breed brat. Moreover, that bitter sting of jealousy is rearing its head increasingly often and a little voice in his head that sounds remarkably clipped, female and American constantly reminds him that if it were him resting in a coffin, there’s no doubt that Zelda would have been back to her old self weeks ago.

  
That isn’t the only issue, however. Against his will, he’s found himself becoming quite adept at caring for the three-year-old daughter who’s now his sole responsibility. Faustus thanks Satan that Prudence is bright, inquisitive and as independent as one could reasonably expect a young child to be and truthfully, he doesn’t mind her company nearly as much as he probably ought to but it’s still hardly suitable for him to be playing nursery maid. And then there’s the unfortunate fact that on what should be the happiest day of his life, he’s unable to feel much more than a vague sense of satisfaction and the stinging realisation that this doesn’t mean half as much to him now Edward isn’t around to see it.

  
He catches Zelda in one of her rare appearances in their bedroom. She’s changing her clothes, standing in front of the mirror and fiddling with the buttons of her dress with that horribly vacant expression on her face. Faustus approaches swiftly, not wanting to give her an opportunity to duck away and it seems like a good sign that when his hands come to rest on her hips, she tenses but doesn’t tear herself away.

  
‘I have something to tell you’ he says carefully, looking at her in the mirror. Even this pale, watered-down version of Zelda is well turned-out, beautiful. ‘The Council have selected me to take your brother’s place as High Priest.’

  
The second the words come out of his mouth, Faustus curses himself. Mentioning Edward in Zelda’s presence is practically the equivalent of invoking a blood curse even in the most benign of contexts; why was he unable to resist the jibe, rubbing his success in a dead man’s face? Zelda’s always-alabaster face goes ashen and for what must be the millionth time, Faustus curses the day he ever set eyes on Edward Spellman or his sister. If they’d never existed, he would have been High Priest three decades ago and the victory wouldn’t have been marred by the sick dullness permeating through his body at the current moment. Thick, black rage starts to pump through his body; he’s seething with jealousy that she evidently cares so much more about her dead brother’s past than his present success but far more angry with himself for even giving a damn about what she thinks at all. Completely devoid of rational thought, his grip on her hips tightens like a vice.

  
‘For Satan’s sake, Zelda’ he snaps, anger only increasing when she won’t meet his eyes in the mirror ‘You could at least pretend that you’re pleased.’

  
‘You can hardly expect me to dance a reel, not now‘ he can remember her ecstasy when her brother had been announced High Priest with an alarming amount of clarity. That flush-cheeked, beaming Zelda might as well be a different species to the creature currently standing in front of him and his nails dig into silken fabric until he can feel them puncture skin. Despite his fury, though, he doesn’t fail to note that she sounds furious too, the first sign of any kind of real emotion he’s seen from her in weeks.

  
‘Oh yes, forgive me for thinking that you might possibly break through this self-indulgent nonsense to pay some attention to the only reason you agreed to marry me in the first place.’

  
‘You couldn’t possibly understand because you’ve never given a damn about anyone other than yourself’ Zelda wrenches herself from his grasp, darts towards the door but before she can, he has a dangerously tight grasp on her wrist, looking her directly in the eye for the first time.

  
‘If that’s what you really think’ he hisses, relishing feeling her pulse beat beneath his fingers even in his rage ‘Then you’re as much of a fool as dear, departed Edward.’

  
With her unrestrained hand, she slaps him, hard, and he lets her; it’s something, anything, a thousand times better than her utter vacancy of the last several weeks. Lets her do it again too, and again, but when she moves to hit him a fourth time, Faustus clasps her striking hand as well and pulls both behind her in an effort to get her to stay still. Quite suddenly and unexpectedly, her mouth is on his, hard enough to bruise, and no matter the situation, that’s not something he’s ever had the capacity to resist. Zelda’s lips are vicious, as are the nails scratching and scraping at his hands to try and get free; when he gives in and lets them loose to grab at her far-too tempting backside, he regrets it instantly. The second she has the full use of her hands again, she tears her mouth away from his and uses one of them to connect with the side of his face so hard he can’t stop himself grunting in pain. The scratch of her nails against his cheek stings but he’s more preoccupied with the fact that she’s evidently feeling something, even if it’s not going to turn out especially well for him. As swiftly as humanly possible, he twists his wife around by the elbow, pinning her firmly against the bedroom wall with the weight of his chest against her back and laughs, low and hungry in her ear.

  
‘Try that again, sweetheart, and see what happens’ one arm locking her in place around her waist, Faustus’s other hand is free to trail over the curve of her hip, squeeze the plump flesh of her arse, shove roughly between her thighs. His goal honestly is to get her to fight back, to goad her into rage and aggression, but he can’t deny having missed the way she feels beneath his hands.

  
‘Bastard’ she spits out, wriggling furiously but to no avail ‘Let me go, now.’

  
‘You’re the one who started playing rough, Zelda. What’s the phrase? Don’t dish it out if you can’t take it?’ His voice is smug and smooth in the way he knows gets on her last nerve and her legs kick back hard against him, one impacting quite painfully on his shin. Faustus barely pays it any attention, however; his wandering hand has found its way between Zelda’s thighs and he’s delightfully surprised when it strokes over the silk of her underwear and find it, and her, soaking wet. He buries a groan into her glorious cascade of hair, arousal thrumming through him as it apparently is through her. Zelda has always gotten off on fighting but he hadn’t thought that recently she’d been getting off on anything.

  
‘I hate you’ she’s still straining against him, trying her best to break out of his grasp but her head tips backwards to let him bite hard at her throat and he smiles. He’ll take venomous, hungry hatred over vapid indifference any day of the week.

  
‘Mmm, I know. Still wet for me though, aren’t you, darling?’ The snarl that comes out of Zelda’s mouth is animalistic to an extreme and Faustus thinks he could probably be forgiven for letting his own baser instincts override his brain’s efforts to help his wife break out of her reverie. Humming smugly against her neck, he slides a hand under the soft silk and starts to toy with her, teasingly circling over her clit but stopping the instant she moans.

  
‘I suppose that if you hate me’ his voice is a low drawl as he strokes over her entrance instead. She’s so fucking wet that it makes his cock twitch and he can’t stop himself grinding into her hungrily. ‘You won’t want me to fuck this pretty pussy. And yet, that seems to be exactly what you do want, doesn’t it, Zelda? How peculiar.’

  
Her only answer is to whip her head round to try and bite at his own neck, although he gets the distinct impression that she’d settle for sinking those sharp little teeth into whatever kind of flesh they could reach. It does nothing other than spur him on.

  
‘In Lucifer’s name, you’re a delicious whore. So desperate for it that you forget to be angry the second there’s a chance you might get fucked, it’s really a marvel’ finally, Zelda stops wriggling. She moans, sighs, melts back into his arms, and somehow Faustus has become such a fucking fool when it comes to her that he lets his guard down completely, so lost in the slopes and curves of her body that he doesn’t even slightly see it coming.

  
He doesn’t even have the time to savour the soft press of her against him, Faustus find himself hurtling backwards through the air, hears and feels a sickening crunch when his back hits the mattress. Before he knows what’s happening, Zelda is on him, over him, tearing his trousers open with a ferocity that takes his breath away.

  
‘You know, for a very intelligent man’ she purrs, beginning to stroke his cock with a rather terrifying glint in her eye ‘You really don’t know when it’s in your best interests to stop talking.’ Internally scoffing, Faustus opens his mouth to retort and is rather alarmed when nothing comes out. His lips are moving soundlessly but the wicked little bitch has stolen his voice.

  
He can feel the growl rumble in his throat but no sound reaches his ears; it doesn’t stop him from reaching up to grasp at Zelda, hard. If she thinks she’s in control here, he is more than capable of proving her badly wrong, pinning her to the mattress and making her scream his name even if he can’t make a sound. That is, until his arms fly backward entirely of their own volition and just as when he tries to speak, trying to move them is completely fruitless. The conniving fucking harlot. He takes a deep breath, concentrates despite the hot little hand circling over his cock and sends out tendrils of his own magic to nudge at the binding but hits a metaphorical brick wall. Begrudgingly, he’ll admit that Zelda can sometimes give him a run for his money where power is concerned but her fury must be giving her an edge that he’s a little too distracted to overcome. Besides, he’s not sure that he’d want to do anything about it even if he was currently able; he hasn’t seen Zelda look this alive in weeks.

  
‘No, no, no’ one of Zelda’s hand is still wrapped around the base of his prick but she raises the other to wag a reproving finger at him, a mocking smile curving over her lips. ‘I don’t think so, my love. I’m afraid you’re going to have to stay right there and _take it_.’ There’s no affection in her endearment and it absolutely shouldn’t have him bucking into her hand but it absolutely does. She looks like a vengeful, righteous goddess of a religion far older than even theirs as she moves to straddle his thighs and Faustus’s pulse is racing fast enough to hurt.

  
‘Look at you’ Zelda croons as her elegant fingers start stroking again and it's embarrassing how close he is to spilling all over them ‘Faustus Blackwood, hard as rock because he’s completely at his wife’s mercy, who’d have thought? And you know, you’re quite pretty when you’re not putting all your energy into getting on my last damned nerve. Maybe I'll leave you like this, just keep you here to ride when I need to relieve a little _frustration_.’

  
On her last word, she shifts her hips to sink down onto him and Faustus’s mouth falls open in a silent groan. She’s so hot and wet around him that it drives him to distraction and when she leans down to press an open-mouthed kiss to his neck, he’s already practically panting.

  
‘If you come before I do, Faustus...’ her voice is low and dangerous against his throat and at this present moment, he really is completely at her mercy in every sense ‘You’ll be very, very sorry’. If that’s the case, she isn’t doing a very good job of dissuading him. She begins moving in earnest and the sight of his wife fucking herself on his cock with twisted pleasure and anger shining in her heavy-lidded eyes is quite possibly the most glorious thing he’s ever seen in his life. It’s different, the way she’s riding him; instead of bucking up and down, quick gyrations of her hips as usual, Zelda is moving with deeper, longer strokes, invoking long, drawn-out moans from those ridiculously fuckable lips. He’s buried in her as deep as seems humanly possible and in distinct danger of seeing exactly how sorry she plans to make him when she stops, quite suddenly.

  
‘I should do this more often; you feel good when you aren’t busy using my cunt to stroke your ego. Maybe you can actually make me come like this’ Zelda’s voice is silky soft and she rocks back and forth just a little, just enough to make it very difficult to concentrate on what she’s saying. Her smile is pure sin and only grows wider when he glares at her. He knows fine well that it isn’t true, that she’s making herself feel better by torturing him. He still hates it. Hates it even more when she grinds down, moving in deliciously frustrating little circles that completely rob the air from his lungs. He can feel her body shift with it, tension building as she moves faster and harder until she loses her rhythm, her hand coming to where their bodies join and rubbing rough circles over her visibly swollen clit. Those ought to be his fingers making her squeal and they’re physically aching to do it but when her other hand starts clawing at his stomach, he can think of nothing other than staring at her. She looks inhumanly good when she comes, always does, and the moan she makes rips right through him; if his soul hadn’t been sold long ago, he’d discard it in an instant to be able to touch her.

  
What seems like a ridiculous amount of time later, she rises off him. Without the glorious heat of her cunt around him, he finally notices how uncomfortable he is. His shirt is sticking to him, his arms are cramping and he needs to come so badly it hurts. Zelda exhales, sweeping her hair out of her face as she curls back into the pillows. Without a word from her, his arms are suddenly malleable again and when he grunts in frustration, the sound echoes around the room.

  
‘Feeling better?’ he snaps, scrambling up in an attempt to gather a little of his dignity. To his surprise, Zelda is actually smiling as she smooths out a crease in the fabric of her dress. Quite typically of Zelda, while he's a wreck, she barely looks as though she's exerted herself at all.

  
‘A little, thank you, yes. Perhaps you ought to go and take care of that’ she casts a wry eye over his still aching erection and although he glares at her again, Faustus would rather have a teasing or even a cruel Zelda than a numb one a million times over.

  
After that, the thaw is gradual but noticeable. At his investiture, Lady Blackwood is smiling and serene for all the world to see and it would take someone far more intuitive than the majority of the Church of Night to guess that there were cracks a mile wide between the presentable exterior. Zelda starts spending more of her nights at home again, claiming that she dreads to think how Prudence will develop with only him for company. Almost before he knows it, they've settled back into a disturbingly comfortable pattern but he flatters himself he knows Zelda well enough to know that there's something lurking beneath the surface.

  
They're in bed, practically a picture-perfect image of domesticity, when his wife eventually makes her opening salvo. The instant she begins to walk her fingers up his chest, curls her body into his side in an unusually affectionate gesture, he's well-enough acquainted with her little tics and tricks to know that she’s after something.

  
‘I want Sabrina to come and live here’ she says quietly into his neck, licking a distracting stripe across his collarbone. His initial reaction is one of incredulity and he opens his mouth to tell her so before her finger presses against his lips to stop him. ‘Listen for a moment, I beg you. Hilda has never...’ she pauses, takes a deep, shuddering breath ‘My sister has never been as devout as one would wish, Satan only knows why. And as fond as I am of my nephew, a housebound lawbreaker is hardly the ideal role model for a young witch, especially given the unfortunate disadvantage of her parentage’.

  
‘Surely your sister won’t agree’ he says lamely when her finger slips away and her hand runs up to card through his hair, although he already senses that this isn’t a battle he’s going to win.

  
‘Hilda will do as she’s told’ Zelda murmurs, shifting so she’s practically lying on top of him, and Faustus is fairly certain that Hilda isn’t the only one. ‘Besides... my niece will be a nice distraction for Prudence. And it’ll be far easier for you to have me all to yourself.’  
Zelda’s voice is a low purr and he can feel his traitorous cock start to harden. Having her all to himself might be exactly what he wants, but he really hates that she knows it.

  
‘Please, your Excellency’ she moans into his ear, and there’s a distinct possibility that he might come in his trousers right there and then. It’s really rather delightful being married to someone who isn’t above using her equally delightful cunt to get what she wants.

  
‘You are aware that seducing someone into doing your bidding doesn’t typically work after several decades of marriage?’ he says as dryly as he’s able.

  
‘I don’t need to seduce you to get you to do my bidding, Faustus’ that’s certainly true but he doesn’t really appreciate how sure of it she sounds ‘And I hope you’re not implying that either of us are in any way typical.’

  
‘Perhaps we could finish discussing this at a later date’ his hand skims over the curve of her silk-clad hip and even before she gives him that triumphant smile, it’s clear that there’s no more discussion to be had.  
Zelda has a point, he has to admit. It doesn’t bear thinking about how the child would turn out if left alone in that hotbed of religious apathy; apparently Hilda had already been making noises about integrating her with local mortals and that’s something Faustus wouldn’t wish on even his worst enemy. Besides, it gives him something of a kick; taking and moulding Edward’s family into one of his own, having Edward’s child obeying his rules, learning his values, being raised under his roof. As time ticks away, his predecessor is hardly even mentioned, in his hearing at least. He might have to deal with Zelda thinking that she rules the roost but if that’s what it takes to rid himself of the Edward-shaped spectre at the feast, it seems like a very small price to pay.


End file.
